


Story A Day May: The Marvel Edition

by uminoko



Series: Fic Challenges [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: F/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-01
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-01-21 13:37:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1552367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uminoko/pseuds/uminoko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parameters of challenge can be found on storyaday.org</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Getting Home (Sam and Steve)

Sam leaned on the parapet, beer in hand, and watched the fireworks bloom in the sky.

Stark Tower, or Avengers Tower, or whatever they were calling it these days, felt like an ill-fitting shoe: it was too big, too shiny, too clean.  He would have preferred the workshops to the pageantry.  Grease smells better than champagne.

Stark would probably let him take a look if he asked.

He readjusted his shoulders and rubbed his neck.

"What in the world are you drinking," Steve closed the door behind him and came to the edge of the balcony.

Sam examined the bottle.  "Hell if I know.  I think it's some kind of a local craft brand Stark is sponsoring."

He rolled the label over in his hand.  "Red, White, and Blueberry," he read.  "Look, it's kind of got...maybe your face on it?"

Steve craned his neck.  "Is that even legal?"

The air whistled overhead and boomed, spreading fire on their upraised faces.  Sam gripped the shaking railing.  The echo settled in his bones as the tentacles of smoke drifted across the city.

"Funny how this country celebrates freedom by making the lives of soldiers pretty difficult," he said, not hearing himself over the ringing in his ears.

Steve nodded.  "Happy birthday to me."

They stood in silence, watching the sky explode.


	2. Magnetic Words (Bruce and Betty)

"Who," Bruce asked, opening the box, "would give me a mustache-themed poetry magnet kit?"  
  
Betty shut the oven door.  "Jen, probably.  Sounds like something she would do."  
  
She was dancing around the kitchen, humming to herself, and otherwise engaging in her dastardly plan to make Bruce forget that it was some kind of a holiday.  He resented the cookie scent that wafted through the house, but the way Betty looked in her cardigan with that little lace slip peeking out certainly made up for the trouble.  
  
"What audience could it possibly be aiming for?  People who enjoy poetry and also mustaches?"  Bruce took out four magnets and stuck them on the fridge.  
  
- _his hair grow good_ -  
  
"Hm," Bruce said.  
  
"Hipsters, probably."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Hipsters.  Enjoy poetry and mustaches."  Betty walked to the fridge and tilted her head.  
  
Bruce thought about it and stuck two more magnets above the original phrase.  
  
- _athletic alluring_ -  
  
"Is it because of that incident in college when-"  
  
"My mustache looked fine, thank you."  
  
"It was like a growth," Betty laughed, "on your face!"  
  
Bruce stuck some more magnets firmly onto the surface.  
  
- _impressive player of not need more_ -  
  
"That's harsh," he said.  
  
She reached over his shoulder and selected a few magnets of her own.  
  
- _big bushy attitude_ -  
  
They both stood back and examined their handiwork.  
  
"Wow.  You should take a picture, send it to the General," Bruce recommended.  
  
"I think he'd fail to see the humor in it.  He hasn't made a joke since, I don't know, the seventies."  
  
"That was a big decade for mustaches."  
  
He put his arm around Betty's waist and pulled her to him.  They swayed, grinning.  
  
When she kissed him, she tasted like chocolate chip cookies, and spices, and warmth, and not like Christmas at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An online Mustache Poetry Kit can be found here: http://play.magneticpoetry.com/poem/Mustache/kit/  
> Here is the completed poem that inspired the drabble: https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/60720250/mustache%20poetry.png


	3. Vermilion (Wanda)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is an introduction to the Marvel AU that I have been working on for a few months.

Who knows, after all, how worlds are born.  
  
Sometimes a girl tiptoes through some back room of a bookstore, filled with volumes yellowing and musty, and something catches her, holds her so tight that there is no choice but to bear an entire universe.  
  
For some, the worlds begin when a girl is in the womb, washed over with waters before the dawn of consciousness.  Some traditions believe that all the knowledge in the world is available to those who are truly awake, and tell stories of monks in remote villages, who, despite their illiteracy, could hold lengthy and accurate discourse on ancient dharmic texts they have never read, as well as current events entire continents over.  
  
Some people are simply special.  
  
This girl was special in a way that everyone is, but due to some whim in the turning of the stars, she had a bit more magic than the average person possesses, or rather knew how to listen to it and hear it more clearly.  Sometimes it rang as clear as a bell in her mind.  And because she had this uncanny ability, she could rummage through the back rooms of infinite possibilities of creation and she could, well, she could simply make things a little bit more likely to happen.  It wasn’t any kind of an unnatural activity.  The magic sang, and she could sing with it.  
  
So, singing, she was born into a world where her parents named her Wanda, which was a name as odd and old-fashioned as they were.  The little girl liked the name, because in the golden strands of text in her mind, floating in the pre-dawn waters, she read about a woman who could do what she did.  Because the woman had a brother, this little girl thought that she would rather like to have a brother, too, and because the woman had friends, she thought that perhaps friends like hers would be interesting to have in her life as well.  
  
Little Wanda’s world was rather boring before.  It had no magic, and the technology that did exist was the violent, brutal sort.  Much about the City was violent and brutal.  It spanned three thousand square miles and crammed most of the country’s population into tall, dark buildings.  Outside of the city was wilderness.  Outside of the lines of the shore was uncharted territory.  The Wars had redrawn the familiar landscapes, reducing words that once required a qualifier to simple monikers.  It almost seemed civilized this way.  There was no more Berlin, New York, or Moscow, there was only the City.  There were no wars, there were just the Wars.  Jungles and deserts and mountains became the Wilds, creeping slowly, inevitably, violently, upon the remains of the civilization.  The animals became something else.   
  
There was no point in reaching out to the others anymore, so the citizens of the City turned inward.  Wanda read stories like these before, too, and they were called ‘post-Apocalyptic,’ which she thought was misleading, because by definition, she would expect the Apocalypse to be the end of things, all things, and in her case, it was simply a beginning of something different.  Wanda didn’t find it particularly worse or better than the other worlds of which she had read.  This was her world, and she was a little princess.  
  
That’s what her father told her, at any rate, and she knew that he did not exaggerate, because he was a king.  Her father’s kingdom was also the violent, brutal sort:  in fact, one could more accurately describe it as a gang, but Wanda wouldn’t, because she was not rude.  It was a family.  Occasionally, it would get into squabbles with other families, and as most family business, it occasionally turned into a bloodbath.  That was just the way of things.   
  
Wanda was kept away from most of it, although she knew, because she read about it in the golden threads before the world, that her childhood would not last forever.  So, she tried to make the most of it, and in making the most of it, in playing with her brother and chasing her mother across the mansion, Wanda began to forget, as most children do.  The letters she once saw faded from her mind, and while she could still make things happen by shouting at tall scarred men in suits, she forgot that was a trick to it.   
  
The trick was simple, you just had to know how to do it, you had to keep in mind the big picture.  And one day, sitting on a sun-warmed porch of the family mansion, Wanda forgot.  It didn’t take much:  the trick slipped from her three-year-old mind as she watched a vermillion butterfly flit across the garden.  
  
Wanda rubbed her chubby, rosy cheeks.  One day, she will remember, and her world’s wings will beat with the familiar patterns again.


	4. The Unexpected Guest (Peter and Jessica)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based in 616; exploring what happens after Peter regains his life that was temporarily taken over by Doc Ock running around in Peter's body. Oh, comics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt (http://storyaday.org/writing-prompt-elizabeth-s-craig/) didn't turn out as prompted, but it sure did go somewhere.

 

 

Peter didn't like visitors anymore. With every one of them, he had to wonder, 'sooo, what horrible thing did I say to you in the last few weeks? Did I punch you in the face? Kick your dog? Did I imply anything about your mother?' The entire thing was a wash, and it's not like he could blame it on anything but a very long blackout session. "I have a terrible problem," he rehearsed in his head as he unlocked his door. "I have a terrible problem, I'm getting help, I promise. Please tell me I didn't pee in your potted plants or something."

"Oh, Jessica!" He said instead.

Jessica Jones pushed on his door. "Hey, Peter. I'm in trouble. Can I come in?"

No, no, that's a terrible idea. Maybe later? Maybe never? Actually, I'm doing something, I'm....straightening my hair. No, she'll never buy it. "Of course," Peter said and turned to let her in. "You know, um, we've never been the kinds of friends who necessarily come to each other's house unannounced when we're in trouble. I know we're Avengers and all, but let's face it, they are the people you usually come to when you're in trouble. Not me. I just kind of make more trouble. At least that was the status last time I checked."

Jessica crossed her arms, appearing to ignore him completely. "Have you ever tried cleaning this place or...?"

"I'm going to go ahead and subtly change subjects now." He laughed, hating that no matter how hard he tried, all his laughter lately has been the nervous sort.

She shook her head. "I lied, I'm not in trouble. You're in trouble."

Peter moved some t-shirts off the couch and plopped down. "That sounds more likely. Please, have a seat, tell Doctor Parker what troubles you."

Jessica laughed and pulled up a chair from what functioned as a dining room. "You're not a doctor, are you?"

"I am now!" He jazzhanded at her.

"Right. OK."

They sat for an interminable moment in silence, staring at each other.

"OK, the pressure is too much." Peter folded in half, feeling like he was twelve years old, about to get grounded by his aunt. He rubbed his face. "What was it? Was I a horrible person? Did I say something that is absolutely unforgiveable, and now you're going to hold it against me for the rest of my life? Because I'm sorry, I really am, whatever I did, I'm sure I didn't mean it that way, and I'm a terrible human being, and please forgive me."

"What?" Jessica's laughter sounded perfectly un-nervous. "You have been perfectly lovely. In fact, I just told Luke that I'm in love with you, I'm always have been, and we're moving in together just like we talked about."

Peter felt his mouth go dry, and realized it was probably because he opened it and it wouldn't close. He tried to say _you're messing with me, right_ , but what came out was a low, horrified whine. He was dead. He was going to be spider-paste. Luke Cage was going to smear him on the wall, and that was going to be the end of his illustrious spider-career. _Damn it, Otto, you're a homewrecker.  I'm a homewrecker.  I'm dead._

Jessica blinked at him.

"Yooooou..." he said.

"I'm kidding."

"Oh, thank God." Peter slumped so deep that his hands hit the floor. "I don't mean that, you know, um, no, I, wow, you're a lovely lady and everything, but uh."

She shook her head. "Oh, no, it was all worth it. You didn't drunkenly propose to me or something. You've been acting weird, but that shit would have been way out of line even for you."

"You know, lately I don't even know where that line is. I'm so far past the line that I may have gone all the way around the world, just to end up with the line right in front of me." He sat up again and smiled at her, weakly. "Thanks for checking in on me."

"Of course." Jessica propped her chin up with her hand. "No matter what weird-ass stuff you get into, Peter, I know you're still that kid I had a crush on in high school. You know. A good guy."

"I'm really not. I mean, I'm not the kid you had a crush on in high school."

Jessica raised her eyebrows. "Really?"

He gestured to indicate his apartment and, presumably, his adulthood.

"I don't know, Peter." She dipped her head, letting the brownish hair fall over her face in a suddenly girlish gesture. "I'm not going to pretend a lot of crap didn't happen. But, you know, we move on. I don't even know who that person was that had a crush on you back then, I think I've been a million different people since."

"But you," she looked up, smiling. "You're the same. All that stuff didn't change you, you keep coming right back to who you really are."

Peter paused. "You say it like it's a good thing. It's like someone out there doesn't want me to do anything else but come right back to where I started."

He didn't mean it to come out as bitter as it did. What would New York City do with a bitter Spider-Man? He had a reputation to maintain.

"Oh well, at least you still got a cute butt," Jessica resolved philosophically.

They laughed, and for a moment, Peter thought that maybe some things staying the same was not such a bad thing.

 


	5. Your Voice Is Unique (Bruce and Betty)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Prompt from the Story-A-Day Challenge was to write a Cinderella story in any way that delights you. Turns out what delights me is to imagine Jennifer telling a fairy tale to her toddler niece. Supposing she had a niece.

Hi, Annie, do you want me to tell you a story? It takes you like three hours to fall asleep, and I'm not sitting here that long. Fine, you can crawl all over me until you wear yourself out, and as one sided as this conversation may be, I'll go ahead and tell you a story anyway.

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy called The Eighties, which was the best decade ever, there lived a boy named Bruce. That's right, daddy! You're a smart little...um. I don't know a child-appropriate epithet to put here. Anyway, so, let's skip right over his childhood and how he played with Auntie Jen, and how we got separated and then saw each other again, because, well, that's a pretty cool story, too, but I want to tell you the one about mommy and daddy and how they met.

So -oh my god, please don't do that to my hair- so, in a far away land called Boston, Massachusets, there is a magical place that's kind of like Hogwarts. Except you don't know what Hogwarts is yet, but that's OK. You'll learn. Anyway, it's a school. It's called Harvard, which kind of sounds like Hogwarts, but it's in America, where everything is way better than in England, because we have more than five flavors of ice cream. That's right! Ice cream! No, I'm not going to get you any ice cream, are you kidding me, you'll get a sugar high, it'll be like trying to put Billy Mays on crack to sleep. I don't have the energy for that.

Well, there was your daddy, in Harvard, and he was the nerdiest nerd in all the land. Seriously, there was no-one as nerdy as your daddy. You listen to me, kid, I know nerdy. He had no fashion sense, and he had glasses as thick as your thumb, with, like, these rims, and you should've seen his ties. I mean, I do not even know where he got that stuff. Trash? A bin of discarded remains where bigger, more powerful students cast off their unwanted clothing, like butterflies escaping their cocoons? I don't even know, man. But there he was, the nerdiest of nerds.

And since this is kind of a bit of a Cinderella story, I feel obligated to mention that there is a wicked parental figure. That would be your daddy's father. We don't talk about him a lot. I'll just tell you that he was a very wicked man, and even when he wasn't around Bruce, like at Harvard, he still somehow used his evil powers to keep him locked up in his dorm room from several states over. Bruce rarely went anywhere, except for his little dorm cell and the lab, and he worked all the time. The more he worked, the nerdier he got, to the point where the nerd was like a layer of soot covering him. It was strong with this one is what I'm telling you.

Oh, and he also had the wicked stepsisters, the roommates. They all made fun of him, even though they weren't that much better, to be honest, but they had rich parents and cars and marginally better taste in outfits. Some of them even had mustaches. We don't talk about that a lot, either. It was a dark time.

But one day, young Bruce heard about a party. It was the biggest party in all of Harvard, and for some completely unknown reason, he really wanted to go. OK, your aunt Jen made him, because she was visiting, and she liked to party. I guess she'll be the fairy godmother. I bet fairies like to party, I mean, think of all that rainbow stuff, am I right? Yes! Fairies! So, we kind of washed his face and brushed his hair, and I may have borrowed some of his roommates' clothes, but I wasn't stealing, because stealing is wrong, right? Right. We were going to put them right back. But your daddy looked pretty decent, dare I say it. He barely even looked like a homeless person! So, to the party we went.

And at that party, Bruce saw the prettiest girl in Harvard. She had long brown hair and pretty eyes and pouty lips, and her name was Betty. Of course, it was mommy! But she didn't know she was going to be your mommy yet. She saw Bruce and she came over to talk to him. He got very worried, but Aunt Jen kept making faces at him until he realized that Betty was asking him to dance. To your aunt's great relief, he managed not to spill drinks your future mommy, or step on her feet, or, like, you know, throw up on her from sheer anxiety. They were downright graceful, actually. I'll always remember them, young and foolish, slow dancing to I Want To Know What Love Is.

But then midnight struck, and out in the far corner of the room, we spotted one of his wicked roommates stumbling in. And Bruce was wearing the clothes that, um, that roommate may not have known that he borrowed, so we kind of had to do the smart thing and get our butts out of there fast. I don't really know what he muttered to Betty, but he made some noises, and we left in a hurry; so much of a hurry, in fact, that he dropped his stupid horn-rimmed glasses on the floor. He tried to pick them up, but they got lost in the crowd.

But you know who picked them up for him? Your mommy! You see, Bruce left so fast that he forgot to tell Betty his name, and Harvard is a big place. So, she kept the glasses, and she kept asking people if they were theirs. Everyone said no. Some people even tried them on, but the glasses were too small or too large, or they just didn't look nerdy enough in them, so Betty knew they weren't Bruce.

Until one day, she spotted Bruce under a tree. He was probably using the tree as a reference point, because he couldn't see too well, and he had to hold on to stuff to get around. So, Betty came up to him, and she said, "Are these your glasses?"

And Bruce looked at those big, thick-rimmed glasses and said. "Yes, they are." And then Betty put them on his face, and they fit perfectly.

I'd like to tell you that they kissed and married, and lived happily ever after, but that's not what happened. Though I think that was the moment when they fell in love with each other just a bit, enough to last them through until the tougher times. Oh, look, you're asleep, little Banana child. Let's tuck you in.


	6. Fanfare for the Common Man (Bobbi and Clint)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was to write a story based on a musical piece, and it turned out to be about Clint, Bobbi, and grief.

"Let's face it, classical music is for assholes." Clint was standing outside the New York Philharmonic, stuffing a large pretzel into his face. Where he managed to get carnival food outside the fine establishment was a mystery to Bobbi, but really, on any given day, the carnie just seemed to follow Clint around, whether he could help it or not. The sounds escaping from the building boomed and soared majestically through the mostly empty street.

"Pretentious assholes," he added, licking his fingers.

"You're a fucking heathen," Bobbi said fondly, and without much conviction. She agreed, actually, but at this point in their relationship, disagreement was simply a function of the autonomic nervous system, like breathing. You didn't notice it was there unless you were paying attention to it, or if it was suddenly gone. The low-level bickering was as comfortable as an old jacket, even if it occasionally rose and soared into something dramatic, whatever was appropriate. Sometimes people got kicked in the crotch.

"No, OK, think about it. They call it 'Fanfare for the Common Man,' OK? Don't look at me like that, I've heard music before." Clint wiped his fingers on his pants. "Ooh, I even know they wrote it for Steve."

"Who's they?"

"You know. They. The guy. The guy with the music." He rubbed his face, then splayed his fingers, raising eyes heavenward. "The fucking composer!"

Bobbi tilted her head from side to side, considering. "Technically, 'they' wrote it for the US soldiers entering World War Two, but fine, let's say, Steve was an inspiration. What's your point?"

"My point is. Have you seen that guy go into battle with any kind of fanfare? He just goes in and does it. And all the military guys I know, and all the SHIELD personnel, and anyone with any kind of a measure of professionalism just goes in and does the mission. They don't expect celebration, there's no cookie afterwards, and there's definitely not a crowd of some assholes in expensive tuxedos meeting them when their arms are up to their elbows in shit and dirt."

"You sound bitter." Bobbi smiled and hooked her elbow in Clint's. She was used to the Unfairness of Life monologues. "You want some fanfare, don't you?"

"Damn right, I do. It don't get more common than me."

"Yes, yes." She patted his arm. "Grew up on the mean streets of a podunk town in Iowa, deep in the heart of...nothing."

He elbowed her, but it was also half-hearted.

It was surreal how easy it was to pretend that everything was normal between them, but the truth was that Bobbi was dead once, and now she wasn't.  They had a go at having a proper relationship, they really did.

Death was real, Bobbi learned. It was cheap in superhero circles, and people came back so many times, but there was still some kind of a gap between yourself and the people who mourned you. Look at her and her family. They were angry, then they cried, then they laughed with relief and joy, but hell, it was still awkward at Thanksgiving parties. In fact, they avoided their not-so-deceased family member as if she was, in fact, a walking corpse. It was probably easier that way.  
  
Clint was never angry at her. He did cry, though, and then he trembled, burying his face in her hair when they first made love. But then Bobbi would wake up to him curled up on the other side of the bed, as far away from her as possible.  Clint screaming himself awake was even worse, because he still screamed her name.

He acted the same as he did before she was gone, or at least he thought he did. There was still distance behind his every gesture, and Bobbi didn't think that it would ever go away.  
It didn't matter that she was back. She wasn't the person that he remembered before she was gone, and in the time that she was gone, he had created an idea of her, and then he fell in love with that idea, and then he mourned that idea, and he was still mourning that idea.

Bobbi decided that was all right, and they walked down the street until the music grew more and more faint.


	7. Desperate Desires (Carol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Re: Writer's block. The prompt was to write about an all-consuming desire, and I could think of no other than to get words on paper.

Carol used to write, you know.  In her journalist days, she could pump out a story:  she was writing easily hundreds, thousands of words a day, stories just rained down from the skies like manna.  
  
Well, those were the good days.  She didn't talk much about the ones when she stared at a blank screen, and then, for a change, stared at a blank piece of paper for a few hours.  As far as everyone at the paper was concerned, she was magic, a hero, she could tell a story no matter what, and she did not know what writer's block even was.  
  
Carol laughed bitterly at herself.  That was a long time ago, and back then she'd fix the problem with a glass of wine, or maybe two, or maybe three, so by the time it hit home, she'd either write, or she didn't care that she wasn't writing.  It wasn't an option anymore, of course, but sometimes, deep in the heart of her, Carol wished that it was.  
  
She tried writing stories again, and the words would not come.  They bubbled up, like tar in a hot barrel, but none of them made out into the great wide world, and damn it, she knew that if she didn't get it done, she would simply explode.  
  
Carol put the pen on the paper and drew a circle.  It could have been an O.  She drew a line to the left of it.  It looked like a ten.   Two more lines, and they turned into an H.  

"Merry Christmas," she said to the paper.  The damn thing appeared to be mocking her, and she wouldn't stand for it.  She added a T.

The word looked like fire, like explosions in the sky, far above the world.  Perhaps she had a story to tell after all. 


	8. Putting "I" First (Felicia, Peter, Matt)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was to write a story from the first person POV, and I ended up writing something that definitely did not concern a person, but a gargoyle. You know, that one gargoyle. I'd call it gaimanesque, but that would be much too presumptuous.

It's been a long time that the sun has been warming my stone head and the rain has been falling on my stone face, and still I snarl my strong beak down at the city.  Pigeons sit on me occasionally, squawking and shitting, then the rains come again and wash away the white streaks, and I am grey stone again.  Winds blow.  Sometimes, I will even get snow around my eyes, and it looks like I'm gazing upon the world with icy glares.  
  
Sometimes, a young female human with bright hair will brush past me, hair as white as the snow.  She doesn't pay much attention to me.  Her eyes are on stars and the shiny stones in the palm of her hand.  
  
Sometimes, a young male human comes by.  He sits right on me and dangles his long legs off my head.  He talks to me, in fact.  "Hi, Bob," he says, or "Hi, Lester; you don't mind if I call you Lester, do you?  Of course you don't."  
  
It's different names sometimes.  I'm not sure if he can keep track of them.  About most things, I am as sure as stone, but he makes me brittle a bit.  He always asks how I'm doing, and laughs because I can't answer in a way that he can hear.  Sometimes he tells me about his day.  It seems like a stupid, human life:  some females or males who said something or did something, some of whom he likes and other doesn't.  Job.  Money.  I am stone, and I do not care for such things, yet it is nice for someone to keep me warm and company, and he's not as messy as the pigeons.  
  
There is another young male human who stops by my home and sits here.  He takes off his mask, and the wind ruffles his red hair wildly.  He doesn't say a lot.  Sometimes, he mutters low, sad things under his breath, as though he is afraid I will hear them, or maybe he doesn't realize that he's saying them at all.  I like him, as much as stone can like a human.  He looks out at the city with me, and it rains on both of us.  He can cry, and I cannot, but there are moments in which we are stone together. 


	9. Dialogue (Peter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted to write a story in dialogue, I accidentally fail to follow the instructions, because this is technically a monologue.

"I tried to stop it, tried to save her, you know."  
  
"I know.  Everyone does."  
  
"It was like, it was right there.  I could see it, I could see her fall, and the whole time I was thinking, no no no, just a little bit closer, just a little bit, just give me one more second, half a second, I'm right there with her, I'm right there."  
  
"You did the best you could do.  You did the best anyone could have done."  
  
"No.  I should've made her stay in the car.  I should have never let her go with me.  She didn't need to be there, I had it all, I had it."  
  
"You could've died."  
  
"Fine!  Then that's what...that's what needed to happen."  
  
"Better you than her, right?"  
  
"Don't sigh like that. That's your disappointed sigh, and I can't, I just can't handle you being disappointed with me, too."  
  
"No one is disappointed with you.  But think about it, buddy, you really think that there was any a point in your life where you could've told her what to do?  If you think that even for a second, then you are not as smart as we kept telling you this whole time.  She was going to do whatever she damn well pleased, and you had better listen to her.  Trust me, I have some experience on the subject."  
  
"Heh.  I guess you do."  
  
"Well, do yourself a favor and get it through that big brain of yours:  you are only responsible for the things in your power.  Anything else, and you, my friend, get yourself in more trouble than you can handle."  
  
"I wish I just got myself in trouble, you know?  But I got someone else in trouble, too.  Not just her, I mean.  Some other people, too."  
  
"And they were all grown adults, just like you are."  
  
"Are you blaming the victim?"  
  
"I am leaving them with some dignity, Peter, the dignity of choice.  To the very end, they all had a choice of what they were going to do, and they made their choices, and now you must make yours."  
  
"I don't know.  I know what you're saying, but I don't think I can really accept that."  
  
"Well, you've got a lifetime to think about it, son."  
  
"Thanks, Uncle Ben."  
  
"Anytime." 


	10. It Ain't Easy, Being (Luke and Jessica)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #superparentproblems

Luke squeezed into the tiny seat in the recital hall, apologizing to about a dozen people who had to move chairs to let him in. They shushed him. The performance was way on its way already; he scanned the stage for Danielle's tiny frame, but didn't see it. He let out a sigh of relief.

"Really?" Jessica whispered in that amazing pitch of hers that was barely more than a breath, yet he could pick it out in a crowd in an instant.

"Traffic," he tried to defend himself, but Jess raised an eyebrow, and he knew he lost. "Superhero stuff?"

She shook her head. "There is always traffic. There are always villains. You gotta plan for it, honey."

Someone behind them shushed again. Luke turned around and glanced menacingly in the general direction of the back row.

"What am I gonna do, leave the fight early?"

"At least you made it." Jessica sighed and took his hand.

He sighed as well. "I know, I know. I can't stand that look on her face, either. Makes you think, what are we even doing, you know?"

"Shhh," she said. "Look."

Dani stumbled onto the stage, eyes huge in her head, scanning the crowd. Luke beamed at her, although he was sure that the stage lights blocked her from seeing anyone at all; still, thus encouraged, like a newborn fawn, she took the first unsteady steps of the dance.


End file.
